ROSE. 
193 
TO A SWEET-BRIAIl IN INDIA. 
THE MISSIONARY LAWSON. 
O stranger, welcome as a long-lost dream 
Art thou to me, a wanderer like thyself, 
Far from my home, and thine. 
We meet, but 0 how chang’d ! 
Not that thy form less lovely seems to me — 
Thy foliage less perfum’d ; but frailer far 
Than when at home thy boughs 
Hung o’er my weary head. 
Thou seem’st a tender shade of what thou wert. 
Paler and shrinking from the sun’s deep gaze 
That urgeth the quick growth 
Of thy transparent leaves. 
But there is magic in thy odorous breath, 
I own thy sweet control, and think of thee. 
And seem to live again 
With thee in other climes. 
I see thy shadow at the cottage door 
Besprinkled o’er with sun-beams round and 
bright, 
Like yellow guineas thrown 
Where wealth had never been. 
And there re-blooms the jessamine that help’d 
With thee to form the poor man’s silent bower, 
